Page 2 of Claiming Atlas
“On me,” I say, not dropping her gaze.
She tilts her head. “I can afford a bottle of Dom Perignon, Atlas.” Amusement sweetens her tone.
It’s really not about the champagne at this point, and neither of us could care less who pays for it. She returns the champagne bottle to the bar, then closes her book and swivels the barstool toward me. Her knees are slightly parted, an invitation for me to step between them. I pull my gaze away from that opening between her legs, only to get stuck on her chest. Her red suit jacket is open, exposing a white dress shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose the curved black lace cupping each tit.
When I think I can speak without sounding like I’ve never seen a set of perfect, store-bought tits before, I clear my throat and go for it. “I never did get your name.” Dropping my hand to her knee, I tuck my thumb just beneath her skirt.
“We seem to have run out of Dom Perignon. Can I get you something else? A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, perhaps?”
The woman’s eyes close on a long blink. “Weseemto have taken a major leap in quality.” She shakes her head. “But we’ll take it. If we must.” She dismisses him with a quick flick of her wrist. Looking back at me, she grins, her eyes playful again. “What brings you to Vegas, Atlas?”
I narrow my eyes. Why won’t she tell me her name? Is she famous? Searching her eyes, I wait for a hint of familiarity, but nothing comes to me. She’s older than me, but I’m not sure how much. Her eyes have the faintest smile lines in the corners, but not even a hint of a line between her eyebrows. She’s taken care of herself. Botox? I focus on her lips, but I can’t tell if they’re naturally full or if they’ve been injected. I really don’t care. She’s one of those women who don’t age. Or refuse to. Either way, I win.
She pulls her bottom lip into her teeth and I meet her gaze. The challenging look in her eyes tells me I should already know who she is.
I want to.
I slide my hand a little further up her skirt, and the calluses on my fingers catch on the thin fabric of her tights. I grip her thigh, then lean forward to whisper in her ear. “I’m here for a distraction, Miss...?”
She runs her tongue over her lower lip, slowly, torturously.Definitely DTF.Gradually, she brings her gaze up to meet mine, and I wait, hopeful, for a name.
“I’m in the market for the very same thing, Atlas.” Her voice drips with honey, smooth and thick, and it’s all I can do not to claim her mouth with mine and taste that honey for myself.
I tighten my grip on her thigh, then watch the motion of her throat when she swallows.
Fuck names.
“I’m heading to Vegas to see my divorce attorney.” She pauses to gauge my reaction, but I give her nothing. “If my husband can screw anything and everything that walks, why can’t I have a little fun?” She brings the bottle to her lips once more, then takes a long pull of champagne. “Plus, I’ve never joined the mile high club.” With these words, she opens her legs further.
I drop my gaze and fight back a moan of pleasure when the skirt slides up to expose the lace tops of her nylons. She’s wearing one of those things that straps to the pantyhose to hold them up.Fuck me.With my hand so close to the bare skin of her thigh, I can barely think straight. Just a couple inches further and I’m in. But would she let me finger her right here in the middle of the first class bar?
If she were a Banger, the answer would be yes. I could fuck her and five of her friends, right here, right now, with little to no hesitation.
But she’s not a Banging Cade groupie. I don’t think she has even the slightest clue who I am.
And that makes me want her even more.
I try to compose myself and drag my focus back to her face. “Sorry about your divorce,” I say, and it sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I could have invited her to join the club with me, but I keep us on topic. A topic she’d probably like to get off of.
I’d like to get her off.
“We got married young.” She shrugs. “Once my career took off, I guess he just couldn’t handle not being the bread winner.” She narrows her eyes. “You know, he’s suing me for alimony. Can you believe that?” She laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “The bastard is a goddamn surgeon who’s fucked every RN west of Texas, and he wantsalimonyfromme.”
If he’s a surgeon and he’s asking her for money, this chick makes bank.Hello, Curiosity, I’m Atlas.“What do you do?”
She pins me with that grayish-blue gaze. “No more questions, Atlas.” She places her hand firmly on my dick and leans forward, bringing her lips to my ear. “I’d like to keep this as impersonal as possible.” She pulls her head back just enough to meet my gaze. “Deal?”
I swallow hard. Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time. Young chicks aren’t where it’s at. Older women with confidence and experience and a desperate need to get back at their cheating ex-husbands might be my new bag. “Deal.” The word is choked off when she squeezes my cock.
The bartender shows up at the perfectly wrong time and clears his throat.
My new friend removes her hand from my crotch, then laces her fingers together in her lap, perfectly poised. I’d almost think I imagined the way she just groped me, but the spark in her gaze is unmistakable.
Like the pressure in my pants.
He sets the second bottle in an ice bucket, then places two flutes beside it, the blanket folded up neatly on the bar. “Can I get you anything else?”
She shakes her head slowly, holding my gaze. When the bartender leaves, she smiles. “Join me at my seat? Or should we stay here?”
